Len Kuntz (above) lives on a lake in rural Washington State with his wife and son. His fiction appears widely in print and online at such places as Heavy Bear, Stacatto Fiction, The New Verse News and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.

TWISTED

The barn slats had seams. I peeked. Light twisted a thousand gnats and chaff.You looked so hungry with him.

TUCSON

I haven’t eaten since. In Tucson the lawns are simply dirt and pebbles. The beige pall is not a soothing flavor. Neither place nor color can dissuade me from the fact that you’re a damn liar.

SKETCH ARTIST

She draws hands and fingers and nails, hair follicles and sprouts. Puzzled, the instructor wants to know where’s the rest—thetorso and penis.

She adds an eyeball, a second one, then crushes them with two fake thumbs.

SEALED

She coughs up nickels and dimes and sea shell horns. She’s seen how the bulimics do it. She keeps trying until there’s only stale air, tainted breath. No one’s told her that sin is sealed inside the soul.

SWAY

He wants to breastfeed. There are other ways of living. In some countries the moon is less shy and animals hold sway. He’s taken medication before. There have been mistakes, impairments. But now it’s shelter he needs—to be coddled and told, “Shhh.”